


Burn For Me

by Nevermore_red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, characters to be added as they show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevermore_red/pseuds/Nevermore_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa wants more, but can Sandor give it to her?</p><p>***Warning: Not sure if or when I'll update this story.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He came to her at night. He always came to her at night, when the rest of the world was sleeping and the sun had gone away. He was darkness and shadows. He spoke to her little in these times. She imagined words were beyond him when he got this way, when he was at the point where he could no longer restrain himself and took pleasure in her body. Took refuge in the oblivion she gave him.

This night was no different, at least for him. For Sansa, it was the end. It was goodbye. She could no longer do this with him, although it was as painful as cutting out her own heart to think of a life without him. But this wasn't a life with him. This was emotionless, this was cold comfort, a sexual release, something that ended before the sun ever rose again.

She knew him well. Knew his pains and his insecurities. She knew that, for a man like Sandor Clegane, this was all he was willing to give her. All he thought he was capable of giving her. And she had accepted what he gave her. But she couldn't any more. This half life was slowly killing her inside. She wanted more. She _deserved_ more. She wasn't asking for much. Sansa knew romantic overtures were something for songs and stories. But she wanted the simple connections that came with a relationship. She wanted a man who would take her out, who would enjoy conversation with her, who could offer her an emotional connection. Eventually she wanted marriage. She wanted a family. Sansa knew not everyone wanted those things, but she did. But it had become evident over the year of doing this with Sandor that he wasn't going to be the man to offer her those things.

It broke her heart to admit it to herself, but she wasn't even sure that she was the only person he came to for this sort of escape. It broke her heart to realize that while she might love him wholly and completely, he didn't return that emotion. She knew he was capable of love. She knew that behind all the muscle and scars and harsh demeanor, he was soft hearted and kind. He'd just been burnt, both literally and figuratively, too many times in his life to be willing to love again. Sure, he cared for her, in his own sort of way. He worried about her safety and always knew her moods without her having to say anything. Whether she was sad or angry or happy. He noticed those sorts of things. Things no one else seemed to know.

Her bedroom door stood open, always open and ready for him, so he came through without a sound. By the time he reached her side of the bed, he was already removing his pants, his shirt and shoes discarded elsewhere in the house. Confident in the fact he couldn't see her in the darkness, Sansa didn't bother to fight the tears that sprang into her eyes as she tossed the covers back for him. She watched in silence as he let the rest of his clothes fall to her floor and him sheath himself with a condom before climbing onto the bed with her. His mouth didn't lower to hers for a kiss, instead it went straight for her breast, the harsh, desperate pull of his lips and rake of his teeth sent a shiver through her and the tears spilled out silently, rolling down her temples and into her hair. His hand found her center, his rough fingers parting her, stroking her until she was just wet enough, and then he entered her.

Though he always took her a little roughly, or at times very roughly, Sansa had always enjoyed it, secure in the knowledge he would never physically hurt her. And despite the fact that his actions were mostly quick and prefunctionary, he always made sure she came at least once before he did.

Tonight, he kept his upper body above hers with an arm braced beside her, his other hand between their bodies to rub her clitoris with determination. Sansa knew he didn't like her touching him much, he normally would pin her hands above her or beside her when she tried, so she didn't often try. But tonight she did. She ran her hands up his flexing torso, across his hair covered chest, her fingers tripping over the dips and divots of the scars that crisscrossed his body. Whether he was too busy holding himself up and getting her off, or that he just didn't care tonight, he didn't stop her touching him. Maybe, on some subconscious level, he felt the difference in her tonight and knew this would be it.

It was too dark to see his face properly. He wouldn't allow lights. But she traced the lines of his face with her fingers now, memorizing the high cheek bones, the slightly hollowed cheeks, every bump and crease of his scarred side. With the tip of her middle finger, she traced the bow of his bottom lip, then the blade of his nose. She wanted so badly to kiss him, but he'd never received her kisses well in the past and she didn't want him to leave just yet. She wasn't done saying goodbye.

Too soon she felt her body swelling, her pleasure rising to the peak. When the pressure broke and she came, it was with a heart wrenching sob, tears cascading down her cheeks and wetting her hair. Above her Sandor cursed softly, the first word he'd spoken to her that night, and then his thrusts became erratic and shallow before he thrust hard and deep one last time, a broken groan signaling his release. Sansa wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold her to him. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to carry his burdens alone, that she loved him and wanted to keep him. Forever.

Instead, she swallowed down the words he wouldn't accept, and touched his face one last time. He rolled off her soon after, sitting silently on the edge of her bed for a moment, his head hanging. Unable to stop herself, she rolled towards him and placed a hand between his shoulder blades. His lungs expanded on a deep breath, and then he stood, grabbing his clothes and leaving. A few moments later, she heard the front door close and the deadbolt slid home as he locked the door behind him. She'd given him a key six months previous since he only ever came to her in the dead of night. She'd have to remember to get it back from him.

Curling onto her side, she reiterated exactly why she couldn't do this with him any more.

-

There were very few things Sandor felt any sort of passion for. He had a passion for hating his brother and his father. He had a passion for working on cars. And he had a passion for self loathing.

Sandor wasn't generally a well liked man, but there wasn't a person alive who hated him as much as he hated himself. And that self loathing was never worse than it was when he left her bed.

He told himself time and time again he wouldn't go to her anymore. He told himself time and time again he wouldn't leave her again. But time and time again, he went to her, and he left her.

It was better that way. Safer.

He wasn't stupid. He knew a girl like Sansa would eventually find her knight in shinning armor and move on from him. They would buy a quaint little three bedroom with a white fence and have two perfect kids and a fucking dog. She deserved it. She deserved to be happy, and he wasn't blind enough to think he could make her happy. But for now, he'd be damned if he could give up the sweet oblivion she gave him. Those few moments alone with her in her bedroom were the only times in his life where he felt calm. It was only there, with her, that the anger and rage and pain left him. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do when someone better came along for her.

As he walked into the café and took his normal seat in the corner near the window, he watched her speaking with a couple at a table across the diner. She'd opened Early Birds two years ago as a bakery that had grown into a full menued café. It was a thriving little business, and the towns people loved it, and her. She finished taking the couples order with a smile and turned to go back towards the kitchens when she caught his eye. Her step faltered and her mouth opened a little, but it was her eyes that kicked him in the gut. They looked sad, resigned. She looked hurt, and he knew he was the reason for it. He was aware he was a dick, and he was aware that there wasn't a woman alive that would be unhurt by his callous treatment. Oddly enough, though they'd been fucking now for over a year, she'd never looked so openly wounded by it.

He recalled the night before. How he'd forgotten himself for a moment and reveled in her touch instead of denying it. He remembered how she had touched his face, how she'd almost seemed to be putting it to memory. And afterwards, when her hand had touched his back. He'd heard her shuddering breath and now realized she'd been crying.

It hit him then like a knee to the nuts. She had been saying goodbye to him. That had been it. His chest seized painfully at the thought. If he had known, he'd have taken more time. He would have touched her more, worshiped her like he'd always wanted to, how she deserved. He would have done his own memorizing.

Sansa quickly recovered, her sweet smile back in place as she held up a finger to indicate she'd be right back before she went to deliver the other tables order to the kitchen. In a moment of sheer panic that he'd only ever felt around flames, he quickly rose from the table and left the café. He wasn't sure where he was going as he strode quickly down the sidewalk, he just knew he needed to get away.

"Sandor!" he pulled up abruptly at the sound of her voice shouting his name, realizing what a coward he looked like running from her. But hadn't that been what he was doing every day for the last year, every night that he left her bed moments after release? He'd been running from her for a long time now. Turning back towards her slowly, he watched her hurrying down the walk to him, red hair falling free from her ponytail.

"Where are you running off to?" she asked when she reached him.

"Work." he snapped. "Is there a reason you're running around like a crazy woman yelling at me?"

Her face fell and she looked at the ground, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Yes, I...I think we should talk." she looked up at him. "We need to talk. It's important. Come by my house tonight and we can discuss it."

"I've got shit to do tonight." it wasn't a lie, at least. "Bronn's in town and..."

"Please." she cut him off, causing his brow to raise in surprise. Sansa was nothing if not polite. She didn't interrupt. "Please, Sandor? Just this once. It really is important."

Maybe it was her out of character interruption, or maybe it was her asking him please. He couldn't remember a time where she had seemed so desperate when she asked him for something. "Alright." he nodded. "Now, I've got to get to work if you're done."

"I am." she smiled sadly, lifting a hand that held a bag he hadn't noticed she'd been carrying. "Here. It's your usual."

He took the paper sack and watched her walk away until she went back inside her café. He opened the sack and looked inside. Two bacon, egg, and cheese hand pies. There was that ache in his chest again. He absently rubbed his fist against it as he turned and headed towards the garage.

 

After he finished with the last costumer of the evening, he went to the back bathrooms to wash up when he heard his office door open.

"Garage is closed." he called out. "Come back tomorrow."

"Don't think so." Bronn's voice came from the open bathroom door. "You and I have an appointment at the local coffee shop."

Sandor shook his head and dried his hands off. Two years ago Bronn had found Sandor passed out drunk in a ditch a block away from the garage. He had no idea how he got there, or who's blood was on his shirt, because it damn wasn't his. Bronn had taken him to the hospital where he'd been treated for cracked knuckles and acute alcohol poisoning. After that, he'd gone off the bottle. It hadn't been easy, but the thought of being someone even more like his brother had scared him enough that he was determined to kick the habit. Next month he'd be two years sober.

"I can't tonight." Sandor told Bronn, moving past him to his office as he pulled his grease covered shirt off.

"And why not?" Bronn followed him.

Sandor opened the coat closet and pulled out a clean shirt and put it on. "Sansa wanted to see me. Says there's something important she needs to tell me."

"You think she's up the duff?"

"What?!" Sandor barked, his legs suddenly feeling a little weak.

Bronn grinned. "You think she's pregnant?"

"No. Piss off." Sandor sat down before he fell down. "She takes the pill and makes me wear a condom. There's no way she's pregnant."

"She makes you wear a condom even though she's on the pill?" Bronn asked with a brow raised.

"And?"

"And, don't you find that a little odd? You've been fucking now for over a year. Doesn't she know you're clean?"

"I don't fucking know." Sandor ran a hand over his hair. "She's never asked. She just asked that I always wear a condom."

"She thinks you're fucking other girls." Bronn's words, said like a statement of fact, brought Sandor up from where he was sitting down changing out his boots.

"Why in the hell would you say that?"

"For one, she makes you wear a condom even though she's protected from getting pregnant."

"She's just being cautious. Neither of us want a fucking kid."

"And second," he continued like Sandor hadn't spoken. "Because Margaery told me she thinks that."

"What?" he shot to his feet. "She told Margaery she thinks I'm sleeping with other women?"

"No. She told Marg she thinks you might fuck other women. You don't sleep with anyone, not even Sansa. You fuck her, and then you leave her."

"Watch your fucking mouth, Blackwater." Sandor growled.

"What?" Bronn grinned. "Don't like the sound of the truth? If that's not what your doing, then what is it?"

"It's complicated."

"No. It's not. It's patently uncomplicated. You wont let it get complicated. Complicated would mean there was feelings and emotions." Bronn pushed off the doorframe he'd been leaning on. "Tell me, Hound, when's the last time you lay with Sansa after your done fucking just to hold her? Hell, when was the last time you went to Sansa's house just to talk? You don't. You go there in the middle of the night, you fuck her, and then you leave."

Bronn moved to stand in front of Sandor, tipping his head back slightly to look up at him, a look Sandor had never seen in his friends eye.

"You've done nothing but trade out the bottle for her cunt. Think about it, man. It's like that itch you used to get in the back of your throat when reality became too much and you quieted it with booze. But now that itch isn't in your throat, and it's not an inanimate object you're using to escape. It's a woman. A living, breathing, _feeling_ woman who just so happens to be one of the sweetest girls I've ever met. Who for some reason has put up with your ass and honestly seems like she cares for you, though the gods know why."

"What the fuck brought on this intervention?" Sandor snapped, trying in vain to ignore the truth of the other mans words. "Why the fuck is it you care anyway?"

"Because you're my friend, dog." Bronn shook his head. "And because Sansa is Margaery's best friend, and it's killing her to see Sansa hurting so much. I gotta tell you, man. I know your life has been nothing but a big pile of shit topped with a heap of fuckery, but it's not going to get better if you don't put the fucking past behind you. Look what's right in front of you. Move on and get your shit together or you're going to lose what is likely to be the best thing that's ever happened to you."

With that, Bronn gave a sharp nod, and slapped Sandor's shoulder before turning back to the door and grabbing his coat, leaving Sandor standing gob smacked in the middle of his office.

Pulling himself together, he resolutely pushed Bronn's words out of his head and jumped on his bike and headed to Sansa's. The sun was just setting when he walked up onto her porch. He had a key so he didn't knock, just unlocked the door and stepped in.

"Sandor?" her voice drifted from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"It's me." he crossed the small living room and dinning room he stopped in the kitchen doorway and watched as she stood up from putting something in the oven.

"Hey." she smiled in his direction, but didn't meet his eyes. Instead, she picked up a wine glass he knew contained nothing more than sparkling grape juice. She didn't keep alcohol in the house and would never drink it in front of him in any case. He fought a grin at the fact she still used a wine glass.

"You wanted to talk with me about something?" he wanted to get it over with, whatever it was. There was still a worried, niggling voice in the back of his mind that said she might be pregnant. He wasn't sure how to handle that or the torrent of emotions the thought brought.

"Yes." she took a deep breath through her nose and turned to lean against the counter, her blue eyes meeting his finally.

"This, this is quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever had to do." she paused and swallowed hard, but held his gaze. "Whatever this is between us, I...I, I just can't do it anymore. I want, I need, something more." Tears brimmed her pretty blue eyes as his stomach plummeted and his throat constricted, making it hard for him to breath.

"I'm going to need my house key back." she said a little softer. "And I'm going to insist that you not try coming over anymore. I," her voice broke then, and she looked at the tile floor while tears spilled over. "I need to put this behind me. I need to move on, but I wont be able to do that if you keep coming to me."

"You're ending us?" he asked, his rasping voice a low rumble. Her eyes flew back up to his, tears still falling freely.

"Us?" she shook her head. "There is no 'us', Sandor. You never allowed us to be an 'us'. What I'm ending is a cold, empty sexual relationship that is holding me back from pushing forward."

In true Clegane fashion, anger overtook his heartache and he strode across the kitchen, backing her up further into the counter, one hand coming to rest just below her throat.

"Cold and empty?" he growled. "It never felt cold when your pussy was creaming around my cock and I can guaran- _fucking_ -ty you weren't feeling anything close to empty when I was balls deep inside of you."

She shoved against his chest, and although he was twice her size and had four times her strength, he stepped back.

"Cold, when you never so much as say hello before you fall onto me. Cold when you wont allow me to touch you, or kiss you. Empty because it's nothing more than a hollow, prefunctionary sexual release for you and then you leave me in bed, my skin still wet with your sweat, without so much as a 'thank you'." she sniffed, turning around and grabbing her wine glass. "I wont be your whore any longer, Sandor."

"You're not a whore." he grasped her arm and spun her around. "You were never a whore. Don't say that."

"Don't say that?" she looked at him with wide eyes. "Sandor, think about what you just said to me. That's how someone talks about a whore."

"What do you want from me, then?"

"Everything." she whispered. "Every part of you. I want your nights and your body and your pleasure, but I also want your grief and your heartache. I want your daytimes and your evenings. I want you to talk to me, to just be with me." She stepped up to him and cupped his face in her hands. "Listen to me, I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm going to say this before you leave. I need you to hear it, I need you to know."

"Sansa, don't..." she cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips.

"I love you, Sandor. So very, very much. Don't think for a second I'm ending this because I don't care about you. I do. So much it hurts sometimes. But it can't be all one sided. I need someone who is willing to love me back. Someone who will show that they care about me as well. I tried just living with what you were willing to give, but I can't anymore."

"Don't." he jerked back from her touch. "Don't say I don't care. I fucking care. If I didn't fucking care I wouldn't be here, would I?" he clamped down on his back teeth and took a slow breath. "What do you want me to do to show you that?"

"Stay." she said the word softly, tears falling silently down her cheeks. "Spend the night. Take me out for dinner occasionally. Talk to me, let me in." she shrugged. "I'm not asking for any grand gesture here, Sandor."

Sandor swallowed against the panic rising in his chest. _Spend the night_. No, he couldn't do that. He couldn't wake up screaming, covered in sweat and tears in her bed. He couldn't bring his Hell into her Heaven. He wouldn't.

"I don't think I can be what you expect me to be."

She smiled sadly, sniffing and wiping her cheeks. "You can. But you won't. And I realize that now. And I don't want to force you to do something you don't want to do. But I need more. I _deserve_ more."

"You think it's because I don't want to?" he scowled at her, shaking his head. "Of course I fucking want to, but I can't. I won't risk..." he cut himself off, shaking his head. Gut churning and chest threatening to crack wide open, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his key to her door. Without saying anything, he slapped it down on her counter and turned and walked out, not bothering to cast a look back.

No, he couldn't give her more. He couldn't put her at any more risk than he already had. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't change who he was. What he was. He was a monster, bred from a line of monsters. He'd be damned before he allowed that raging beast inside of him to hurt his little bird. The distance he'd always imposed was paramount. He had to keep her safe. Even from himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning, there's thoughts of suicide and memories of abuse in this chapter. So heads up if that's a trigger for you!

Sansa stared at the key on her counter for a long time. Eventually the tears blurred her vision too much and she slowly slid down the cabinets and sat on the tile, letting her grief bubble up and over.

It was unfair. She loved him and she knew, she _knew_ , he cared for her. Maybe more than he was willing to admit. But she knew her self worth. She knew she deserved better than that. She deserved someone who was willing to admit it. She just desperately wanted that person to be Sandor. And she'd seen it in his eyes. Her breaking off their...arrangement had hurt him. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. His life had been so full of hurt and pain already. But that wasn't reason enough to keep breaking off bits and pieces of her soul.

"That's enough." she told herself, sniffling and wiping at the mess she'd created of her face. "Pull it together. You're a Stark. Time to start acting like one."

With that little pep talk, she pulled herself off the floor and checked the oven. Her cookies would be done soon. Baking helped calm her. She'd let them cool while she caught up on the latest episodes of _Girls_ and then she'd frost them. After she ate every single crumb of the dozen she'd made, then she'd take a bath. She'd let herself grieve the loss of Sandor the rest of the night and wallow in her self pity. Come tomorrow, she'd start moving on.

It was far past time as it was.

 ~

The next week went by in a blur of activity. Sansa kept her schedule busy and full, wanting every minute to be filled with something to take her mind off her pain. She worked and laughed with Jeyne and Hot Pie at the café, even if it felt a little forced. In the evenings she met up with Margaery and Brienne and went shopping or to the theatre. She spent an evening with her mother working on a quilt she had been making for Robb's baby that would be born soon. She even met up with Jon and Arya and went to a local pub and shot darts, which she had been surprisingly good at. But maybe that's because she was only person there not drinking. She went to the gym and worked out with Rickon, and to a baseball game with Bran. She even spent a whole Saturday at Robb and Jeyne's helping to paint the nursery.

It helped. During the day at least. The nights were hardest. She'd lay in her bed just waiting to hear his key in the lock before she remembered she'd taken his key. Part of her hoped to hear him knocking, but she was glad he never did. She might have actually let him in. And that would be a giant mistake.

Much to most peoples confusion, Sansa hadn't broken things off with Sandor to pursue another man. There wasn't another man she wanted. She had no interest in dating at the moment. For the time being, she needed to let herself heal. It's why she turned down a date with Margaery's older brother Willas and declined meeting up with Robb's friend Theon. One day she would start dating, but right now didn't feel right. Right now she wasn't ready.

On Sunday she met with Margaery for brunch and Bronn had been there. Sansa's initial reaction when she seen him was to turn and run. Seeing Bronn made her think of Sandor, but she steeled her nerves, lifted her chin, and joined them at the table with a bright smile and a cheerful greeting. They'd made it through almost the entire meal before Sansa just couldn't help herself anymore.

"How has Sandor been?" she asked Bronn without looking up from her French toast. The table grew silent and Sansa could see Margaery look at Bronn.

"He's, uh, he's working a lot. You know, people getting their cars ready for summer road trips and that sort of stuff."

Sansa glanced up at him. "I meant how is he doing, not what is he doing."

Bronn let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. He isn't good, Red. He isn't good at all."

Blinking rapidly to stop the tears from coming, Sansa looked back down at her plate and her hardly touched food. "I'm sorry, Bronn. I know he's your friend. I really didn't mean to hurt him. I just...I couldn't..."

"Sansa, don't do this to yourself, love." Margaery said softly, reaching out to place her hand on top of Sansa's. "You had to do what was best for you."

"Listen, Red, Sandor is my best friend. And I love the grumpy old bastard, but I get it. You can't sacrifice yourself on the alter of his insecurities. It's alright to want more, to need more. You can't feel guilty about that. And while I hate seeing him like this, I'm well aware it's his own fault. I don't blame you, Red, and you can't blame yourself either."

Sansa couldn't respond. She was too busy trying not to cry.

Margaery's hand tightened on her own. "He's right, Sansa."

"I know." she finally managed, then looked at Bronn. "Thank you for that. I only wish that he would be willing to open up. I could have helped him."

"I think he needs the sort of help only a professional can give him." Margaery said.

"Too right, doll face." Bronn nodded. "I'm working on it. But no ones going to be able to help him until he wants the help."

 

-

 

Sandor had never been so close to going back to the bottle. On top of the ever-present rage and persistent nightmares, now his chest ached all the time. So much so that at times he thought he might be physically ill.

It was the only way. He wanted Sansa. More than he'd wanted anyone or anything in his life. But he'd seen what his father had done to his mother. He bore witness to the countless nights that he spent taking his rage and anger out on her with his fists. Sandor himself had been at the receiving end until he was big enough to fight back.

And fight back he did. When the news came to him during his freshman year at high school that his mother had died after receiving injuries from falling down the stairs, he'd gone back to his house with every intention of killing his father. He'd gotten close. Beaten him until his face was more blood than skin and Sandor's knuckles were broken and bleeding. Only Gregor had stopped him. One second he'd been over his father, the next he'd been jerked backwards, his hair fisted in his brothers hand and his face shoved into the flames in the fireplace.

His father was the product of his own abusive father. Gregor had been bred and trained to be an uncaring monster, as had Sandor. Every strip of humanity and love had been forcefully taken from them at some point or another during their childhood. The only difference between Gregor and himself was Sandor had fought the process while Gregor reveled in it.

He was still fighting, but it felt like a losing battle. His father was long dead now, drank himself into a raging stupor only to pick a fight with the wrong man. It seemed Hadren Clegane had raised too perfect a monster in Gregor.

Gregor himself was still alive. Living somewhere in a maximum security prison after three of his wives had turned up dead and he'd been caught killing a heiress from the middle east.

How could Sandor put Sansa at risk like that? How could he, knowing what he'd been programmed to be, give her any more than just a few hours each night? He didn't think he could live with himself any longer if he ended up hurting her. And over the past week, when he thought maybe he could at least try, his nightmares changed. It was no longer his father beating his mother bloody. It was him looming over Sansa, her pretty cream skin bruised and bleeding. It was his hand wrapping in all of that gorgeous red hair of hers while he held her screaming in the flames.

He'd woken up vomiting that night. No he couldn't possibly do that. He knew he broke her heart with his coldness, but a broken heart she could survive. A broken heart she would get over and move on to have a happy, full life. He couldn't hope for the same for himself. Not that he deserved that.

"Hound?" Bronn's voice echoed across the mostly empty garage. Scowling, Sandor pushed himself out from under his truck and stood up as the other man came in.

"What do you want, Blackwater?"

"To make sure you're still alive." Bronn leaned against the hood of his truck. "And to see if you wanted to go grab a cup of coffee with me."

"No." Sandor threw the rag he'd been using to wipe his hands off with onto the ground next to his tool box. "Anything else?"

"I seen Sansa two days ago."

Sandor's stomach flipped over, the corner of his mouth twitching. "She's your broads best friend. I assume you see her often."

"Well, _since you asked_ , she's doing good." Bronn cocked his head to the side with a grin. "She asked about you."

"Yeah?" Sandor picked up his stuff and started putting it away for the evening. "And why do I give a flying shit?"

"She's worried about you. Feels guilty that she hurt you."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever fucking heard." Sandor slammed the toolbox onto the work bench, his stomach twisting with another surge of guilt. "I'm the one who used her."

"Yeah, 'bout that." Bronn cleared his throat. "I want to know why."

"Why what?" Sandor turned to face the other man.

"Come on, man. You care about her. Probably more than I even realize. It's killing you not being with her anymore. So why did you use her like that? Why not give it a real go with her?"

Sandor closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. He was so sick and fucking tired of feeling like this. Of feeling angry and on edge all the time. He was just tired. Maybe that's why he answered so honestly.

"I'll hurt her. Eventually. And not in some insignificant fucking way like wounded pride or hurt feelings." he ran both hands roughly over his face. "Growing up, everyone always said how much I reminded them of my father. How much I was like my brother. I can't...I can't do to Sansa what they did to their wives. And with how I feel all the time, I'm scared I'll do it. I don't want to. I don't want to hurt her. But every single person that's gotten close to a Clegane has been hurt because of it."

"I'm still standing."

"I've broken your nose, Bronn." Sandor snapped.

"And you drank yourself into a guilt fueled stupor afterwards. You didn't enjoy hurting me. Not like your old man and brother enjoyed hurting others."

"What do you think it would do to me if I did that to Sansa?" Sandor shouted. "You think it'd be a drunken night? Fuck that. I couldn't fucking stand it if I hurt her like that."

"You are not your father, Sandor." Bronn stepped forward, forcing Sandor to look at him. "You are not your brother. You are your own man. You don't have to follow in their footsteps."

Sandor stood there for a long time, breathing heavily through his nose, his emotions roiling.

"Let me help you, Sandor."

"Fuck you." Sandor advanced on Bronn, causing the smaller man to back up. "Fuck you, fuck off, and get the fuck out of my garage. Now!"

Bronn's back hit the wall next to the open bay door, both hands coming up. "Alright. Alright. You get tonight, but this isn't over, Clegane."

"Get out!" Sandor roared, a little satisfied when Bronn winced before turning and leaving.

Later that night, Sandor sat on the edge of his bath, the water filling the tub causing the room to become steamy. Regret at how he'd charged at Bronn swirling in his gut, mixing with the burning guilt at how he'd treated and then lost Sansa. He felt his own resolve faltering. His muscles ached with the want, the need, to go to her. He could promise her the world.

"And it'll be the end of her." he growled at himself.

He looked down in his hands. The revolver had been his grandpas. The one on his mothers side. Alton Graves was a good man. Probably the only good man Sandor had ever had contact with during his childhood. He did what he could to help his daughter and grandsons when he could do it. It wasn't much, and Sandor's father was always twice as cruel when it was done. Alton died when Sandor was seven of a heart attack.

He could do it. It'd be easy. Just the bitter taste of metal on his tongue for only a second before he dropped the hammer. The world wouldn't hurt for the loss of a Clegane. And he'd be the end of it. With Gregor in max lock up, Sandor was the only Clegane able to carry on the family name. He could be the final. It would only take a second. It wouldn't even hurt.

Lifting his right hand, he put the barrel of the revolver in his mouth and wrapped his scarred lips around it, his thumb pulling back the hammer. He closed his eyes and a brief second before his trigger finger tightened, he seen her. Red hair blowing gently in the breeze, made even more vibrant by the bright sunlight shinning down on her. She was smiling, an open, honest, sweet smile that made a dimple come out on her cheek and her blue eyes shine. One small, pale, long fingered hand reached out towards him.

Sandor dropped the gun, the force of his sob causing him to fall off the side of the tub and onto his knees. With tear blurred eyes and shaking hands, he picked up the gun and quickly uncocked and emptied it before throwing it and all six bullets across the bathroom.

There wasn't much room in the tiny bathroom, but he managed to curl up on himself and cry like a damn baby, the water from the bathtub overflowing and wetting him and the entire bathroom floor. A lifetime of pain and anger and regret welling up an joining the bathwater on the tiled floor. He drowned in it, felt like the entire world was crumbling around him. He kept his eye shut, the image of Sansa helping to pull him from it's depths.

 When he was able to breath properly again, he crawled out to his bedroom where his cell phone was sitting on his nightstand and he made a call.

"Yeah?" Bronn's clipped voice came over the line.

Sandor took a deep, shuddering breath. "I need help."


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor stood staring at the door in front of him. Cracked dark wood, a worn door knob and dirty fogged glass with chipped paint the spelled out Dr. E. Brother. It wasn't what he was expecting, although he'd never been to a shrinks office before so how should he know?

"I brought you this far, Hound." Bronn squeezed his shoulder. "The rest is on you."

Sandor glared at his friend as he made himself comfortable in the waiting room chair, his long legs stretching out as he picked up an ancient magazine. Sandor turned back towards the door and knocked before he could talk himself out of it. A second passed and the door flew open. Then man on the other side was even less expected then the worn door. He was tall, though not nearly as tall as Sandor, with a shaved, square head, a rather large red nose that spoke of years of drinking, and dark brown calculating eyes. He looked rough and battle hardened. This man looked like he belonged on the front lines of war, or maybe on a work line in prison.

"Mr. Clegane?" he asked, lifting one bushy greying eyebrow.

"Dr. Brother."

"E.B., please." he stepped to the side and motioned him in. "Have a seat anywhere you'd be comfortable."

The inside of the office was much like the outside. Shabby and worn. Two large windows dominated the far wall, a large cherry wood desk sat in front of them, heaped in paperwork. Two wing backed chairs sat before the desk. To his right was a dusty fireplace, a well loved red sofa and two leather arm chairs grouped around it. The walls were mostly bare besides rows of bookshelves and framed credentials. Sitting in the chairs before the desk felt like sitting in a principals office, so Sandor went and sat in one of the leather arm chairs near the fireplace. He bypassed the sofa in case the doc would sit down next to him.

Dr. Brother nodded at Sandor's choice, grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen from his desk and sat in front of Sandor on the corner of the sofa. He wore jeans and a dark grey shirt tucked in. There was a tattoo peaking out from his left shirt sleeve.

"You sure you're a shrink?"

The doc crossed one muscled leg over the other and folded his hands on the legal pad. "Why do you ask that?"

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the older man. That damn sure sounded like a shrink way to answer a question, with one of his own. Sandor didn't answer, just sat looking at him, waiting for an indication of how to proceed. The doctor let a full minute pass before speaking.

"So, you tried to kill yourself."

Sandor flinched at the bald statement. "Damn. Cutting to the chase, aren't we, doc?"

"Would you rather beat around the bush, Mr. Clegane?"

Sandor huffed, but had to agree. "Yeah. Put the fucking gun in my mouth and came a second away from pulling the trigger."

"Why didn't you?"

"What?" he snapped.

"Why didn't you pull it?"

Sandor scowled, running a hand over his beard stubble. "I'm not a fucking coward. It was an easy way out."

"I don't see suicide as a cowards way out, but that's beside the point. Tell me, what were you thinking of just previous to putting the gun in your mouth?"

Sandor was taken back for a moment at the doctors matter of fact way of speaking. It wasn't what he'd expected from a shrink.

"Beating someone bloody."

"Have you beaten someone bloody?"

Sandor jerked his head to the side to crack his neck. "Yes. More than once. And don't bother calling for the police. I've already paid my dues."

"Has anyone ever beaten you bloody?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"You're free to refuse to answer any question I ask you, Mr. Clegane. This hour is for you."

"No, this hour is for you to make money, don't pretend you're here because you care about my _sensitive_ feelings." Sandor sneered.

"You're right. I do make money off this hour." E.B. agreed. "But if you work with me instead of against me, I can promise you'll get your moneys worth."

Curling one lip, Sandor looked towards the fireplace.

"Someone cares about your feelings." Sandor snapped his head around at E.B.'s words. "Mr. Blackwater. The one who called, the one who I assume is sitting outside waiting for you. How does it make you feel that he cares about you?"

"Bronn's not a fag, and neither am I."

"Caring about someone doesn't mean you're sexually attracted to them. Do you have a problem with homosexuality?"

Thrown by the question for a moment, Sandor thought about it. "No. This world is harsh and ugly and cruel. Who am I to deny someone something that makes it all little less awful?"

"What makes it less awful for you?"

"Used to be the bottle. Judging by the looks of you, you indulged in that escape yourself."

"I have." he nodded, completely unashamed. "And I got passed it. How about you?"

"I don't drink anymore. Haven't in almost two years."

"That's good. So what makes it less awful now?"

"Who said it's less awful?"

"Something had to have happened for you to want to throw in the towel after two years of hard work at kicking a habit like drinking."

"A girl."

"Your girlfriend?"

"No. I just fucked her."

E.B. was silent for a moment, one finger tapping against his bottom lip. "It was only a single girl?"

"Are you asking if I slagged myself around?"

"Did you?"

"No. It was just her."

"What changed?"

"She didn't like being used. And seeing as I'm not a fucking rapist, I lost my outlet to oblivion."

"But you didn't seek out another woman."

Sandor clenched his jaw tightly. "You think it's easy finding a girl who'll willingly fuck me with a face like this?" he motioned to his scarred side. E.B. tilted his head to the side and studied the scarring. It was unnerving to Sandor. No one looked that closely at his scars.

"You were burned. Badly it seems, without cosmetic restoration afterwards."

"Being piss poor and without health insurance made it difficult to find treatment, let alone restoration."

"How were you burnt?"

"By fire." he sneered.

E.B. actually laughed at that, his pen tapping the paper on his knee. "Do you like your scars?"

"The fuck do you think?" Sandor growled.

"I think you can use them to your advantage. It's a barrier between you and others that allows you to keep a distance. I think any emotional connection, let alone physical, frightens you. So you use the scars to repell people, although some slip through the cracks. Some, like your friend out there, and quite possibly this girl you claim to use only for fucking."

"I never gave her anything else."

"But you want to."

It wasn't a question and Sandor's head was spinning with how accuratly and quickly the doc had pinned him down.

"Why won't you allow for connection with any sort of depth?"

Sandor felt his chest tighten with something close to panic. Sweat broke out along his brow and his chest started rising and falling quicker with his fast breathing, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. He didn't like this. He didn't like being dissected, all his emotions laid bare.

"It's alright, Mr. Clegane." E.B. said calmly. "Lean forward and try taking slow deep breaths. Close your eyes and focus on something good, something calm."

Doing what he was told, Sandor leaned forward and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breath at a more normal pace. The only calming thing he could think of was being with Sansa. Her soft sighs and whimpers. How she willingly opened up for him. How her light, soft fingers felt skimming along his skin. Her scent of lemon and mint.

"Better?" E.B. asked when Sandor straightened. Unable to talk just yet, Sandor nodded. "Is that the first time you've had a panic attack?"

"No." he took a deep, calming breath. "But it's the first time it's happened in front of someone else."

E.B. nodded, seemingly unfazed by Sandor's episode. "We'll take it back. I want you to lead the conversation for the next," he looked at his watch. "40 minutes. Just talk about whatever comes to mind. Good, bad, innane. Anything."

And so he did. For the next 40 minutes, Sandor talked about growing up poor. He talked about his garage and he talked about his six years spent in the military. He danced around the subject of his parents and brother, as well as Sansa. Still, when he left when his time was up, he felt...not exactly better, but less heavy.

He'd keep it up. E.B. seemed like someone who might actually be able to help him. Sandor would do his damndest to let him.

 

-

 

 A month had gone by since her brunch with Margaery and Bronn. Sansa hadn't seen nor heard from Sandor since he left her house that night. It was odd, to want something so bad but know that it was the wrong thing. She couldn't keep being used. It didn't feel good at all.

Margaery had been odd every time they'd seen each other after brunch. She completely avoided the subject of Bronn, and seemed to be hiding something. Sansa didn't want to push her. Maybe there was trouble between the two and her friend would talk to her about it when she was ready.

Standing behind the counter, Sansa was closing out the register for the night when the bell over her door tinkled.

"Sorry, but the kitchen's all closed up for the..." her words died on her lips when she looked up to see Sandor standing just inside the door, his hands awkwardly shoved into his jeans pockets. Her heart twisted and every ounce of emotion she'd been able to tuck away of the last few weeks came rushing back. Gods, she'd missed him. It took every fiber of her will not to jump over the counter and throw herself at him.

"Uh, hey Sandor." she said lamely, quickly looking down at the register to gather herself.

"I know you asked that I stay away..."

"It's a small town, Sandor." she cut him off. "There's only two cafes in town. You own the only garage. We were bound to see each other again. And it's...it's alright."

"You're still shit at lying." he chuckled, taking a single step closer to the counter, his face turning more serious. "Can I talk to you for a second? If you want me to leave, just tell me to fuck off and I will."

"No, don't go. It's fine." she took a deep breath. "What did you need to talk about?"

"I'm fucked up." he shrugged, those wild grey eyes of his meeting hers and holding. "I've been fucked up for a long damn time. That's not on you. None of this shit is on you. I...I want to be more. I want to be able to give you more, but I can't. Not right now. But I'd like to try and...and, I don't know. Be your friend."

Sansa's heart trippled in pace and she opened her mouth to say something but he held up his hand.

"I get it if you can't. I understand if you need space to move on. And if you need me completely out of your life to do that, I will. My...my shrink says I've got to be prepared for the possibility that I can't have any part in your life."

"Your shrink?" she forced out of a tight throat.

"Yeah, a counselor, or psychiatrist or whatever."

"You're getting counsling? But, why?"

He shrugged, looking highly uncomfortable. But he didn't turn and leave. That was more than he'd ever given her in the past.

"I don't like who I am. And you wanted more. I want to be the type of guy that can give you that. If you're willing to wait, 'cause, fuck, it's going to take a while."

"Sandor,"

"Wait. Just...I'm not asking you to wait. I don't deserve a goddamn thing from you. There isn't a way in Hell I can ask you for something like that. I just...E.B., my shrink, he said you deserved to know so you could make the choice yourself."

"How long have you been seeing him?"

"A month. I see him twice a week."

"It's helping?"

"I think so." his jaw muscle flexed and he ran through his hair. "He says I need people around me that are supportive." he looked at the ground again, his chest starting to rise and fall rapidly. "He said I had to fucking ask, but I can't ask something like that from you. So tell me to fuck off and I will. I'll leave and you won't have to...to see me again." The last part of his sentence was said in a rush, the words breaking up at the end. She noticed that he'd pulled his hands free of his pockets. One was fisted tightly at his side, the other rubbing at his breastbone. There was subtle trembling of his shoulders and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. She'd seen this before. Robb, when he came back from the war, had panic attacks.

Jerking up the passthrough in the counter, she went to where he was standing and went to touch him, but pulled back before she did. She wasn't sure that would help him right now.

"It's okay, Sandor." she said. "Just breath. I'm here, and I'll do whatever I can to help you."

He nodded his head to let her know he heard and she waited patiently until he straightened up from his haunched position.

"Do you want to sit?" She motioned to the barstools. "I can get you a water or a coffee."

"No." he shook his head and took a deep breath, one hand coming up to rub his temple.

"Sandor, I'm here for you, okay? I can be a support system. I want to help you get better, and I'd be honored to be your friend."

"Just my friend?" His grey eyes searched hers.

Sansa bit her lip, swallowing down the words she knew she couldn't say right now. "For now, yes. Like you said, it's going to take time."

Something passed through his expression, something that looked an awful lot like hope. "But you'll be there?"

She smiled softly. "Of course."

He let out a deep breath. "Good. Just...don't give up on me."

"As long as you don't give up on yourself."

Shifting awkwardly on his feet, he looked back towards the darkened kitchen. "I moved in with Bronn for the time being. That asshole has more fucking room then he knows what to do with anyway."

Sansa nodded, unsure of why he would move in with Bronn when she knew he had an apartment above his garage, but decided he'd tell her when he was ready.

"I thought, I don't know, _fuck_ , that maybe you'd start coming over more often. With Margaery. We could talk or," he winced at his own lack of words, then scowled.

"Get to know each other?" Sansa offered.

"Yeah." he sighed. "That'd be...E.B. said I have to start forming real relationships and to do that I have to work at it."

"That sounds lovely, Sandor." she smiled, wanting so badly to touch him, but knowing it was likely too soon. She'd have to find out more about his situation and research the best ways to help him. Or maybe she could talk to this E.B. herself. He'd likely be able to tell her what would be helpful and what would be counter productive.

"Right." he nodded, pulling himself up to his full height. "So I, uh, I'll see you around."

"Of course." she nodded. "And if you ever need anything, just give me a call. Or come round the cafe again. I always have plenty of BEC hand pies made and ready."

A ghost of a smile curved the unburnt corner of his mouth, his stormy grey eyes holding her for a long moment.

"Good night, Sansa." he paused with his hand on the doorknob, then looked over his shoulder at her. "And thank you."

Her throat tightened and she swallowed against it. "Good night, Sandor." she smiled through the tears, staring at the door long after he'd left.


End file.
